Santana's Scheme
by Kalexico
Summary: Santana has a hard time controlling her lust for Quinn. After a particularly heated party with a drunk Quinn, Santana decides it's time to start her scheme. Rated M for language. FEMSLASH.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I know this is my third story running, but I always have multiple stories at the same time. I've written out a "planning" for _My Dirty Little Secret_ and that should be finished in 30 chapters. I don't have a planning for _With a Little Help from a Friend_, but I have some ideas and will be writing the next chapter soon.**

**This one is a bit heavier than my other stories. This is darker and just not as fluffy. This has been in my head for a while, but it was hard finding the right voice. Let me know what you think!**

**Happy reading & don't forget to review.**

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><p>The music is loud, pounding in her ears, making her head throb. She doesn't care in the least. The world is foggy and slow, but she can feel the bass shaking up her insides. Sound and vision are out of sync. Voices, loud echoing voices. Cackling laughter. People shouting, the sound of someone throwing up. It all blends before it reaches her ears, blended into one mix of sounds, the separate ingredients not recognisable to her. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.<p>

She tries to focus her eyes on the figure in front of her. She squints her eyes and smiles goofily as the image sharpens. A blur of blonde hair comes into focus. The hair looks sweaty and stuck to her dance partner's forehead, tiny curls framing her face. The light, perfectly sculpted eyebrows, then the hazel eyes that seem so far away, just as much in an entirely different world as she is. That straight, beautiful nose. Those pink lips she has been wanting to kiss ever since she knows kissing is what people in love do. That body, moving to the bass that is ripping through her, grinding hips into her. That body she's been aching for ever since she knows having sex is what people in love do.

Suddenly, she's back, snapped out of her trance as she feels an undeniable throbbing between her legs. She blinks, head still pounding, trying to fucking kill her. She looks at the girl in front of her, who is still miles away. Quinn is beyond drunk. She's lost all self-control and Santana knows that she should stop her friend now, that she should take her home and put her to bed and pretend like tonight never happened, like they haven't been grinding their hips into each other as if the loss of contact would be the death of them, causing a friction that feels so right and so wrong at the same time. Honestly, she _knows. _There's only one problem: she can't.

All those years she has been waiting for Quinn Fabray to let go, to let go of her fucked up values, to stop being such a goddamn goodie two shoes and for once just release herself from the impossible boundaries she sets upon herself. And now that she has, Santana simply can't find that part of her that would do the right thing. The bitchy Santana people know is not the true one, but part of that Santana is real or she wouldn't be there in the first place.

She continues to convince herself that she's entitled to this as she lifts her tigh against Quinn's sex, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist, hands resting on her ass, squeezing it, kneading the flesh through the jeans, pushing their sweaty bodies closer together. Quinn flings her arms around Santana's neck, eyes cast to the floor, shamelessly riding her tigh as a dance move. Santana sighs, relents, but only slightly, by pushing Quinn away a little bit, yet maintaining their position.

Santana hears the hollering. She knows that guys are watching them, taking a mental picture to jerk off to later, when they're alone and realise that their asinine behaviour won't ever get them anywhere. When they realise that as long as they keep going the way they're going, the only girls they're going to sleep with are those sluts with no self-respect, the lack whereof originating in those same guys' habit of objectifying them day after fucking day and if that isn't enough, there are always the magazines and the TV shows to make the girls feel bad about themselves, even if they had thirty-seven surgeries to "improve" their body.

She bites her lip on the inside, so hard that she thinks she might feel the blood running in her mouth. The metallic taste can't be mistaken. Quinn is just so fucking sexy and she wants her, now. She needs her like she needs air, she needs to feel her, taste her, touch her. It's almost painful how much her body aches to melt into Quinn's and just take her, over and over again. Santana doesn't even _want _to think about how much easier her life would be if Quinn wouldn't be so damn intoxicating and if Brittany wouldn't be so eager to sleep with Santana even though they both know it isn't really Brittany that Santana is having sex with. There's a reason for the lack of eye contact.

Santana is pathetic, but she hasn't gone as far as to ask Britanny to wear hazel contact lenses when they're having sex. Santana is sure the girl wouldn't mind, but even though she is a straight-up bitch, she refuses to be like those guys. She refuses to demand Brittany to change her appearance, even if it's something as futile as eye colour. Even if really, imagining to have sex with someone else is not that honourable either. Yes, Brittany isn't the one Santana is fucking, but it doesn't mean that she wants Brittany to change who she is. She loves Brittany as she is – as a friend, but does that matter when it comes down to it? Love is love and fucking is fucking and they're two different things.

Santana doesn't fuck all those guys because she likes to. She doesn't fuck them because she enjoys the feeling. She fucks them to convince herself that that is what she wants. She fucks them because they're so very different from Quinn physically. And if she really can't deal, she still has Brittany. Oh, Santana _knows_ she's abusing people, but she's Santana Lopez. Nobody expects her to care.

The flash of a camera brings Santana back to the party. The noises aren't filtered anymore, she can hear everything clearly. See everything clearly. A crowd has gathered and some are taking out their iPhones and cameras to send this to Jacob Ben fucking Israel, to put it on Twitter, Facebook, tumblr, MySpace, whatever the hell it is that is out there. That is when Santana fully sees the entire picture. That is when Santana stops. She pushes Quinn away, grabs her arm and pulls her away, away from the cameras, the boners, the laughter, the gossip mill that is starting. Santana hates Quinn for being so Quinn, for being so perfect and so sexy and so infuriating, but she loves her too much to do this to her.

Before they leave the house of whoever it is that is hosting this party, Santana goes to the stereo system and switches it off. Loud protest ensues, but Santana refuses to let it get to her, to even _hear _it. Instead, she takes a deep breath and shouts: "If I see _one_ picture of Quinn Fabray and me on the internet or in any kind of paper tomorrow, or ever for that matter, whoever did it is fucking dead. I'm not shitting you, I'm from Lima Heights and I know people so I swear to God if I see _anything_, you're done with! Your life is over in every single _fucking_ way! Is that understood?"

A few dumb nods, some murmuring. Blank stares.

"IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?" she yells at the top of her lungs. She knows she's overdoing it, but she's drunk and so is everyone.

"Yeah!" a few people shout, and she stalks off, Quinn in her wake. Santana realises that neither of them is in a state to drive. If she would be alone, she'd just take her car home, but Quinn is with her. She'd kill herself if something happened to her Quinn.

She gets out her iPhone and dials his number. Ever since he and Man-Hands are dating, he's become a total pussy, doesn't go to every party to get wasted anymore like he used to. It's the first time Santana sees the advantage.

"Puck, come pick me up. Yeah. At the party. How the hell should I know? Wait a second." She walks up to the front door, squints her eyes to read the label underneath the doorbell. "Jenkins. Thanks."

"Whaiwegohng?" Quinn slurs when Santana is back with her. They sit down on the pavement, waiting for Puck to pick them up.

"You are coming to my place," Santana says, resting her head in her hands in an attempt to stop all the fucking throbbing. "I know your parents don't give a shit about you anymore, but trust me, they will when they see the state that you're in."

Quinn shrugs and smirks lopsidedly. "Noh my fauwt."

"Bull," Santana hisses. "Maybe they've been treating you like crap, but they didn't put you in the car and drive you here, they didn't pour that first drink for you and they sure as hell didn't make you drink all those... whatever it is you've had."

Quinn has already fallen asleep, her head hanging in front of her. Santana puts her arm around Quinn's shoulder and pulls her close. The intoxicated blonde's head falls on Santana's shoulder. She snores ligtly. Santana takes a strand of blonde hair between her fingers and absent-mindedly starts playing with it. She represses the thought of how perfect this would be if they would both be at another place and sober. She kisses Quinn's hair and then she makes herself stop. She knows that if she doesn't stop now, she never will.

That is when a car honk invades her brain and nearly makes it explode. She curses, pulling Quinn up. Quinn is still sound asleep. Santana motions to Puck to open the back door. He jumps out of his seat and does so as she scoops her friend up and carries her to the car effortlessly. She lies her down and can't help it, she has to, she has no choice but to cup her jaw, stroke her thumb over the soft flesh of her red cheek. Her fingertips wander over her sweaty brow, tentatively touching her pale skin. The pale skin seems to burn through her fingertips in the knowledge of how wrong her desires are. Almost as if it knows everything and is reprimanding Santana. Quinn stinks of sweat, alcohol and whatever it is the people in there smoke that night, but it doesn't stop Santana's need, her intense need to do things to her she'll never forget.

"Come on, Lopez," Puck mumbles, scratching his mohawk. "Rachel will kill me if she finds the bed empty and frankly, I'm tired as hell."

Santana doesn't answer. She climbs in the passenger seat next to Puck, slumps down, her fingers drumming on the arm rest. The burning feeling won't go away Puck casts another look at her, worry etched on his face. She pretends not to notice.

"You'll have to tell her some day, you know," he says as he starts the car and turns the wheel. He doesn't look at her. He doesn't explain. They both know what he means, but Santana refuses to acknowledge that. Knowing what he means makes it real.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Santana mumbles. "And I didn't call you to get a fucking lecture, I called you for a ride."

Puck says nothing. He knows Santana well enough to know that now is not the time to get into an argument with her, that now is not the time to try and make her face the goddamn truth for once. He's not exactly a saint either, but he doesn't think he could live a lie the way she does.

He drops them off at Santana's house. It doesn't surprise him that nobody's there. He offers to help her bring Quinn inside, but she snarls that she doesn't need him anymore and Quinn sure as hell doesn't need him anymore. He decides not to break his head over Santana's behaviour anymore and return to his girlfriend, hoping she hasn't woken up in his absence.

Santana opens the doors and carries Quinn inside. Quinn has always been a heavy sleeper and notices nothing. Santana doesn't know if she's grateful for that fact because Quinn would ask too many questions, or if she regrets it because this side of her is one that Quinn hardly ever gets to see, the side of her that cares so much for her friend that it tears her apart. The lengths she would go to to protect this blonde – it's ridiculous. Santana kicks the door closed behind her and curses herself mentally. She's just pathetic, pining over a girl she'll never get. Observing this behaviour in anyone else would disgust her and it disgusts her that she's being like this, but she can't help it.

Once upstairs, Santana carefully places Quinn on her bed. She hesitates a second, then quickly undresses Quinn until she's in her underwear. She pulls a shirt over her head, struggling with the limp body. She tries to avoid touching her as much as she can. She averts her eyes. She doesn't want to look at her because she doesn't know what her eyes, her hands, her lips are going to do if she lets her gaze linger too long.

She changes into her nightwear and lies down beside Quinn. She grits her teeth, curls her toes, bores her nails into the palms of her hands, breathes heavily through her nose. She cannot touch Quinn, even though she is so close. Too close. She slowly releases the fingers of her right hand and brings it to Quinn's side. She is facing away from her. She stretches her hand until it's flat and lets it hover mere inches above Quinn's skin. From her cheek to her shoulder to her side, over her breasts and her stomach and her legs. Mere inches. One sound to give her a fright and she would be touching her. She does everything she can to keep in mind the imaginary glass barrier between Quinn's body and the palm of her hand. Her biceps ache from the self control she forces herself to maintain. Her hand is shaking.

She mentally cries out in frustration. She is _so. _Royally. Fucked. Maybe if she could just... just for once... she's only human. Granted, she's Santana fucking Lopez but she's only fucking human, so her fingers fumble with the hem of Quinn's shirt, pushing it up just a little bit. For _years_, she has been able to refrain herself from doing the things she kept picturing at night. For years, she's never let anything on. A sigh escapes her full lips when the palm of her hand meets Quinn's stomach. She barely touches her, but it's the most intimate touch she's ever shared with her friend. She slowly moves her fingers, carefully. Maybe if she could just inch her hand up a little and... she quickly retracts her hand when Quinn mumbles something and moves a little.

She blushes furiously in the dark and realises she was fucking groping Quinn Fabray in her sleep. How is that any better than the hollering pervs at that party? That's when she knows that the next day, she has to. It's been sizzling in her brain since April and now that Summer is there, she simply has to try. It's her only shot. It's her only shot of ever kissing those pink lips, devouring them. Her only shot of ever killing the 'What if' and the 'How soft' or the 'How good'.

The next day, she has to start her scheme. She can't anymore. She simply can't. With that promise to herself, she rolls on her back and tries to sleep. She lies awake all night, listening to Quinn's even breathing, wondering if her life will be the same 24 hours from now.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I know it's been a long time since I posted the first chapter. I've had this one written for about two weeks now, but I decided to take a beta reader on board because the story is very different from my others. It took a bit of polishing, but here it is. **

**Thanks for your amazingly helpful advice, Heather!**

**To those who reviewed - thank you so much! This one will be a bit of a long ride and I hope you'll keep reading and reviewing!**

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><p>The dusk shrouds Santana's room in a strange light. The vague, blurry blue of the sky chases away any trace of the deep darkness that preceded it. Santana is still wide awake. She can barely hold her eyes open and has to stifle a yawn every five minutes, but she can't fall asleep. Not with Quinn lying next to her, dishevelled and steadily breathing. Lightly snoring. <em>A calming snore, not an annoying one<em>, she muses.

Santana rolls her eyes at her own thoughts. Pathetic. She knows that if it were anyone but Quinn**,** she'd be so vexed that she'd wake the other person up to kick them out. But who is she kidding? This is Quinn Fabray and for as long as she can remember, it has been like this – Santana Lopez, so easily riled up, can put up with anything if it comes to Quinn.

She decides to make herself useful and stands up, stretching her lithe body before she enters the bathroom. She grabs a few Advils and then goes downstairs to retrieve a bottle of water and a glass.

A few hours later, Quinn is still sleeping soundly. Santana doesn't want to stare. She wills herself not to stare. She forbids herself, but she can't help it. Her hormones are raging, she can feel them surging through every fib**er**, almost hear them. Her eyes rake over Quinn's body, taking in every perfect curve, dimple, mark, scar. Quinn was a tomboy once, before it was deemed inappropriate by her parents. Santana breathes heavily. She leans over to her, plays with her hair, softly. Stroking it, wrapping it around her finger, careful not to tug at it. Her eyes take in her lips from up close hungrily. Parted slightly, glistening – although that might be her mind playing tricks on her. So, so ready to be kissed. It takes everything she has not to give in to her overwhelming desire. She imagines those lips in places – no, no, she can't go there. She presses her thighs together in frustration. Slick.

Quinn, for all her scheming and calculating every move, word, gesture when awake, is very predictable in her routines, especially those that occur subconsciously. She always wakes up slowly. It takes her a long time to actually get into the world of the living. They've had enough sleepovers for Santana to know the process by heart – because Santana never slept during those sleepovers. She has always found it impossible to let herself fall into a deep slumber if her friend was lying beside her, looking so fucking angelic it was surreal. So when Quinn flexes one arm, shifts her body a little, mumbles something and yawns, Santana takes that as her cue.

She descends the stairs again and heads back into the kitchen. Her mind is foggy with fatigue as she reaches blindly for the bottled water. The state she's in, Quinn will need a lot of it. She grabs as much as she can hold and brings it upstairs.

Quinn doesn't get drunk often. She must be having the hangover from hell. Santana enters the room and sure enough, Quinn is awake. She's facing the door, the blanket pulled over her, reaching to her shoulders. She eyes Santana, but no emotion is conveyed. Santana sets the tray on her vanity and walks over to the bed, sitting down. The bed bounces lightly, squeaks, breaking the thick silence more than the footsteps have done. Suddenly, Quinn seems to be wide awake.

"So loud," she mumbles, groaning. Santana wishes her mind – or rather her body – would not notice how fucking hot that groan is. She focuses on pouring a glass of water and handing it to her friend along with one of the pills.

"Have this, it'll help," Santana whispers softly, scooting over closer. She knows that to Quinn, it probably still sounds like she's using Sue Sylvester's infamous megaphone. If Quinn's facial expression is anything to go by, that's not a false assumption.

Quinn takes a sip, lets the water go around her mouth and swallows. She takes a pill and now takes a larger sip, finishing the glass of water in one go. She attempts to sit up, but falls back immediately. Santana grabs a few spare pillows, slips her arm under Quinn's back, willing herself not to feel her body. She feels like she's on fire, the close proximity does so much to her it really is ridiculous. As she holds her friend up, she quickly arranges the pillows. Quinn falls back against them and immediately presses her body into the welcoming softness.

She sits there silently for a while. The squeak of the bed has long lost its effect and Santana can almost see how she's retreating to that place between sleep and wake again. Finally, Quinn turns her head and looks at Santana as if she has never seen her before. Then, a flash of recognition. Slowly, the puzzle pieces start to fit. They click together. Santana can see it happening in her eyes.

"Santana," Quinn finally states, her voice hoarse.

"Quinn."

"What am I doing here? What happened?"

"Party last night. You got so fucking drunk I brought you to my place. My parents are away for the weekend and Diego is in Chicago. I didn't want to bring you back to your home, to your parents. You're staying here today."

"So many words," Quinn complains, scrunching her nose. She sighs. Gulps. "I'm falling."

"No, you're not," Santana replies patiently.

Quinn rolls away from the pillows, throwing the blanket off of her. "Lie there."

"What?"

"Do it. The way I was. You do that."

Linking the words to a message that actually makes sense, Santana stands up and walks to the other side of the bed. She settles against the pillows and next thing she knows, Quinn is draping her body over Santana's. Her arms around Santana's waist, her cheek resting against her shoulder, her legs around Santana's.

Santana stiffens. Then she remembers. Quinn is cuddly when she can't think or reason. When the world is a blur, a vague mess, nearly devoid of sound. Santana uneasily wraps her arms around Quinn's body, not used to this level of intimacy. Wanting a level of intimacy way beyond this one.

_Later,_ she promises herself. She's glad she spent the night rehearsing her speech. The speech she has been thinking up since April. She reali**z**es that if it goes wrong, this is the closest to Quinn she will ever get. She wraps her arms around her a little tighter.

They lie there like that for a while. Santana refuses to think, refuses to let her mind wander where it shouldn't go. She softly strokes Quinn's back and she purrs appreciatively. Santana closes her eyes, takes in a sharp breath. _Fuck._ Her heart is beating so rapidly, so hard that she is one hundred percent sure that Quinn must hear her. If she does, she doesn't let it on.

Santana doesn't care that Quinn stinks of sweat, sleep, alcohol. Quinn is in her arms, wrapped around her. She fights the tears in her eyes. _I'm Santana Lopez. I don't cry. A Lopez never cries._

After a while, Quinn gathers her bearings completely. She announces that she's going to take a shower. Santana tells her she knows her way around the place. As Quinn leaves her bedroom, Santana doesn't move. She hears the shower, but doesn't move. She breathes through her nose. Doesn't move. Forces her mind to stop imagining Quinn naked, water running over her body. Of course, she can think of nothing else. She slips her hand under the elastic band of her shorts. It doesn't satisfy her the way she needs it, and the fact that she has to be quiet doesn't help either, but it will have to do.

Most of the rest of the day is passed in relative silence. They have brunch together and Quinn asks if Santana has slept at all. Santana says she hasn't and Quinn asks no questions. It's an unwritten rule between them not to ask too many questions. If one of them wants to share, they'll share. No prying. They have to put up with enough prying from others as it is.

They go out to the park to get some fresh air. They feed the ducks and Santana thinks of Brittany, then pushes away the thought. She doesn't like to think about Brittany when she's with Quinn, afraid that the guilt she feels deep down will show on her face. Quinn can read her like nobody else can and even though she won't press for answers, any small indication towards the truth is more than Santana can handle.

They go back to Santana's house and Quinn seems to have recovered. They're sitting in Santana's room again. Quinn is surfing around on the internet, checking her e-mails and some websites. She turns to show Santana something and it's then that Santana thinks she'll break and make her proposition to Quinn. She takes a deep breath, even says her name, but then Quinn is distracted and Santana loses courage. She wills her heart to stop pounding in her chest and focuses on the magazine in her lap again, as if nothing is going on. For the next couple of days, she keeps doing this.

It's only a week later that a moment presents itself again. A week of pure and utter agony because the lack of school means she couldn't distract herself by bullying some losers. They're at Santana's house again. They're lying on her bed, next to each other but not touching each other.

Quinn is talking about Finn. Talking about how awkward he is and that she doesn't know what he thinks about anything because he doesn't talk very much and when he does, half of the time he says something so stupid or ill-timed that she wants him to shut up again.

"Have you guys had sex yet?" Santana asks, suddenly out of the blue to Quinn, but it's all she's been wanting to ask ever since the conversation got to Finn. Santana knows the answer, but that doesn't matter. She needs to hear it.

"No," Quinn says, sounding a bit annoyed. "And now he's off to Hawaii for two months, as a trainer on that camp. Hawaii, Santana. He'll be surrounded by hot chicks in skimpy bikinis who will undoubtedly be amazing in bed and more than willing to let him know, and to show him**." **

"Does it bother you that you're inexperienced?" Santana asks, trying to sound casual. Her heart is nearly going in overdrive as she gets closer and closer to her goal.

"Yes," Quinn admits. "I mean, I want to be good for him, you know? I want it to be great. I want him to want me even more after we do it for the first time."

Santana wants to ask why, because Finn's basically a douche, but she doesn't. It's not relevant. It would only lead them to digress from where this conversation is going – exactly the direction she needs it to go.

Santana's body is nearly shaking, boiling, on the verge of snapping as she clears her throat, closes her eyes briefly, opens them again, then huskily says: "I can help you."

Quinn says nothing and Santana says nothing. Neither knows what to think. Santana can't stand the silence, all the words it speaks, the endless possibilities of its meaning. She repeats herself. "I can help you. I can help you... gather experience." She choses her words carefully, staying well within line, treading carefully.

"How?" Quinn asks, bluntly. What is she supposed to say? Think? Conclude?

Santana shifts her body slightly, now facing Quinn. She finds it hard to think, can't remember her speech. Her voice is thick as she continues. "I know this will sound creepy and maybe even pervy, but I just really want to help my friend out. If you really want to be good for him, great for him, I can teach you things." She hesitates, but only for a few seconds. "I can show you things. About... about sex. It wouldn't mean anything. I would just be... easing your body into it, so it wouldn't be tense, and telling you stuff and showing you stuff you can do to make it better for him."

Santana feels awful, but there's no way back. She doesn't know what to do with herself under Quinn's searching, piercing gaze. She knows she's being selfish. She knows she's lying to Quinn. She knows that all she wants is to make love to Quinn until she forgets her own name, her own existence, until she can't think or speak coherently and only see stars and feel catapulted into another world where nothing is ever the same again. She wants to take Quinn, all of Quinn. She wants to crawl into her, give everything she has to her. She wants to fill her and empty her and worship her and punish her for all the pain and the frustration that have been accumulating over the years.

The silence is killing her. Silence is what she's used to, especially with Quinn, and under any other circumstances she'd find the normalcy comforting, but not now. For the first time in her life, she doesn't fear words but craves them, needs them more than she needs air.

What feels like a lifetime later, Quinn opens her mouth. Sound. Lips moving. Santana is so focused on the vision that she can't hear the answer. She blinks. Quinn nudges her. She looks up, into Quinn's eyes. Quinn repeats herself.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Santana asks, baffled. She never thought it would be this easy. She thought she would have to convince Quinn, coax her into this with her smooth words and conniving ways. Be the worst part of herself to feed the worst part of herself. The part of her that doesn't deserve Quinn taking all the purity she is convinced Quinn possesses. For a moment, she panicks. She hadn't planned for it to happen like this. She's thrown off guard.

"Santana?" Quinn's voice sounds like it comes from far, far away. "I feel terrible right now, but later. You can... teach me later."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"I'm sorry, I have to... maybe... do you... uhm... I'm just going to... feed Fergus." Fergus is her goldfish. Diego won him at some stupid fair and he was so damn proud that Santana didn't have the heart to flush him down the toilet, as one would expect from Santana Lopez.

Quinn knows it's a lame excuse to leave the room, but she doesn't say anything. She needs some time herself to let this settle in. She's going to have sex with Santana and try as she might, she can't help but long for it. She takes another Advil. She doesn't want to contemplate what that feeling even means.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: For those who are interested, I have a Nayanna fic running on livejournal (kalexico [dot] livejournal [dot] com) and a GKM Heya prompt fill as well. I'm not posting them here because it violates the rules and I just don't feel like getting in trouble over it. Basically, the Nayanna fic is about Dianna sometimes liking to dress up and be called Charlie. The Heya prompt fill is about Heather visiting Naya in Vancouver. So I suggest you head over there if you like the idea :) Anonymous comments are enabled.**

**Also, those of you who haven't checked out letscall-l's work should definitely do so. I'm absolutely loving the lacrosse!Quinn fic right now.**

**Again - thank you Heather for being an awesome beta! **

**Keep reading & reviewing :)**

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><p>Santana doesn't claim to understand. She can't comprehend how the ever prudish Quinn gave into her request without putting up a fight, without challenging her for an explanation, without despising her, without needing any kind of encouragement. Almost as if Santana has asked her to join her to the mall, or go see that new movie together.<p>

She decides not to try. If Quinn wants to tell her, she will. No prying, their number one rule. True, Santana mostly likes rules because they give her an opportunity to break something, stand above something, _be better_. But the rules with Quinn are different. Necessary. Self-made. For someone with such a persistent dislike for rules, she has created an awful lot of them in her life.

The main reason why Santana doesn't ask why is that she's terrified. She's terrified that if she talks about it too much, questions it too obviously, Quinn will change her mind. Call her selfish, but this is the only chance she might ever get at touching Quinn the way she has been aching to for so long now. So they don't talk about it. They don't propose dates, or circumstances. They wait. Not until the time is right, because this is Quinn and Santana and they don't do that shit. Quinn waits for Santana to initiate because she's too shy, at least that's what Santana thinks. Santana waits until her hands don't start trembling at the thought alone.

Quinn isn't being very subtle. She is a calculating person, never one toreveal her true intentions willingly if it doesn't help her on the way to her goal of the day. But Santana _knows_ Quinn, sees right through her, the way Quinn sees right through her. So when Quinn calls her more often, asks to hang out more often, comes over more often and later at night, Santana knows that she's doing it on purpose. She knows that Quinn's bringing movies or music and that she shows her websites so that Santana would tell her to stay the night. And maybe make her move.

She doesn't. She can't sleep, again. Every single night that Quinn has spent in her bed in the past two weeks has been a sleepless one for Santana. Instead, she watches Quinn, ignoring the part of her that actually has morals and calls her a perv. She watches Quinn sleep, and she talks to her. She pours her heart out, knowing she won't hear her.

"I hate you," she whispers one night. "I fucking hate you, Quinn Fabray. You make everything so much harder than it needs to be. You dictate my life and I fucking let you. I allow you to cloud my decisions, to change my plans last minute. You fucking know I can't deny you anything. I want to fucking punch Finn over and over again because he doesn't deserve you. That douchebag doesn't get you the way I do, know you the way I do. Would you love me back if I had a penis? Does it really matter that much?" She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to calm down.

If she'd be the type for it, Santana would be crying, at the very least sobbing now. She doesn't. She's seething, boiling, fuming, hot with anger. She bores her nails into the palms of her hands, feels the muscles tighten and release. It's not enough. She wants to scream, shatter, fall apart. She has to get out and she has to get out now, so next thing she knows she's sitting outside. The night breeze is cool, causing goose bumps to form all over her skin. She's pulling at the grass absent-mindedly, throwing it away, hand going back to the ground again. She repeats the motion over and over again without even realizing it.

She knows this is the part where one is supposed to empty their mind, clear it of all their worries. She finds herself unable to do so. Her thoughts keep wandering to her friend upstairs, lying in her bed, wearing that shirt and those shorts. Those impossibly short shorts that make it hard for Santana to keep her hands from reaching out. Another rush of anger floods through her body – what has she become? It's just pathetic. Despicable.

"Santana." She'd recognize the soft, hesitant voice anywhere.

She doesn't turn around. She's been so wrapped up thinking about Quinn Fabray, so lost in another world, that for a moment, she thinks it's a hallucination. _Great, now I'm hearing voices._

Footsteps. "Santana," Quinn repeats, obviously closer now.

Hesitantly, Santana turns around. She closes her eyes, quickly opens them again, sucking in a sharp breath at the sight. Quinn, still wearing that shirt that she bought years ago and is now a little too tight in all the right places, still wearing those shorts. Quinn, blonde hair glowing in the moonlight, all of her glowing in the moonlight. Her hazel eyes, worried and confused.

"Quinn," Santana tries to say, but her voice has left her to deal with this alone. Soundless.

Santana stands up. Quinn takes one step closer, opens her mouth to say something when Santana loses it. Completely fucking loses it. Before either of them knows what's happening, Santana has fisted Quinn's shirt, pulled her closer, crashed their mouths together.

There's nothing romantic, soft or tender about the kiss. It's all lips, teeth, tongue, hunger, lust, pent up frustration of years and years. Santana is desperate. Quinn is limp, paralyzed. Santana lets go, briefly, and hisses through unexpected tears: "Goddamnit, Quinn, kiss me."

Santana is panting heavily. Quinn searches her eyes and understanding dawns on her. She nods so lightly it's nearly imperceptible, but Santana never misses any of Quinn's movements. She cups Quinn's face and kisses her again, passionate at first, but soon slowing down.

Finally, Quinn catches up and participates. Their chests drop as their lips slide over each other, their tongues find each other. Quinn tangles her hands in Santana's long, dark locks, pulling her closer. The kissing has now become tentative, delicate. Santana runs her tongue along Quinn's teeth, the roof of her mouth, snaking itself around her tongue. Quinn leans in, intensifying the contact. She rests the tip of her tongue on Santana's as the other girl explores her mouth. Their noses collide, adapt.

They part for air, but only momentarily. Soon enough, Santana softly kisses Quinn's lower lip, sucking lightly. Then she pecks her upper lip, the corners of her mouth. She places soft kisses on her jaws, her cheeks, her chin, her nose, between and next to her eyes, her temples, her brow, her earlobes, the shells of her ears, and the edges of her ears. Finally, she rests her brow against Quinn's.

"Santana."

"Quinn."

"Now?"

"Yes."

Quinn turns around and leaves the garden, going back into the house. Santana follows her through the living room, up the stairs, to her bedroom. Once again, they're home alone. Nobody will hear them.


	4. Chapter 4

The world is a haze. Everything is blurry, sound and vision equally distorted. She feels hollow but for the adrenaline pumping through her veins. Her senses are cut off, focusing solely on Quinn. Quinn's smell, her cold, soft skin. The regular breaths Quinn utters, rolling over Santana's neck, gives her chills running down her spine, tingling to the tips of her fingers and toes and her brain. The sound of those breaths, barely audible, an explosion in her ears.

Upon entering the bedroom, Quinn lies down, positioning herself in the very center of the bed. Santana feels her chest contract as she looks at her friend, lying there – so vulnerable, subject to Santana's every need. Santana climbs on top of her, her knees catching her weight as she places them next to Quinn's hips. She leans down, placing a soft and tender kiss right below her jaw. She cups Quinn's face, turns her head lightly.

"I want you to tell me if I hurt you or if I do anything that you don't like," Santana says with sincerity. She can't bear the thought of possibly hurting Quinn – she'd rather kill herself.

"Mhm," Quinn mumbles.

"Quinn, look at me." Santana brings her face closer, staring straight into Quinn's eyes. Quinn looks back at her. "Promise me to tell me if I hurt you or if I make you uncomfortable," she repeats, more sternly this time.

"I promise," Quinn whispers, looking straight into her eyes and Santana knows that she means it. She leans in and kisses her softly. She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, allowing her eyes to flicker over Quinn's face, her features standing out sharply in the moonlight falling through the window. "You're so beautiful," she whispers, her thumb grazing her cheek. Another kiss – she finds it unable to stop kissing her. Her lips feel so good, soft, smooth. Her tongue is so warm and when she strokes it with her own, she feels it in her entire body. She feels every inch of Quinn echo within herself.

Quinn moans softly, pushing her body up a little bit in an attempt to intensify the contact between their bodies – almost as if her body begs for Santana's touch. Santana lets go of her lips and moves her mouth to her jaw, then her neck. The sensation makes her dizzy with desire. She licks her skin, softly sucks it, nips at it. Quinn reaches up and tangles her fingers in her thick, black hair, moaning. Santana needs a second to compose herself. When she reaches her pulse point, Quinn moans again, once again pushing her body upwards. Santana can almost hear their bodies talking – pleading, teasing, begging, momentarily giving in, pulling back. All at once.

Santana leans back and takes a moment to look at Quinn, to allow the thought that she is actually going to sleep with her seep in. Quinn looks at her, confusion etched in her hazel eyes. Santana scoots back and places her hands on Quinn's waist. Her fingertips burn at the touch, burn right through Quinn's skin to her core. She can feel their connection.

Gently, she pushes up the hem of her shirt to reveal her stomach. Bending, she brushes her lips over the unbelievably soft skin. She groans in appreciation. Quinn's breath hitches, her body archs upwards. Santana kisses her stomach, her belly button. She now pushes the shirt up with two hands, kissing each inch of skin that is exposed, tenderly so. She nearly cries with how perfect Quinn is. It's almost as if, after all this time, it's too good to be true – and as if Quinn is too good to be true, as if Santana is dreaming and she will wake up any moment to an empty bed and collapse again. Alcohol again, or maybe pills this time. She needs to make this real, tangible.

"Lift your arms," she softly whispers. Quinn obeys and Santana pulls the shirt over her shoulders, tossing it behind her. Her breath catches in her throat at the sight of Quinn's naked upper body. She can hardly contain herself or her body's reactions.

"Quinn," her voice cracks, full of lust.

The room is lit only by the moonlight. She unknowingly licks her lips, her wide eyes drinking in the sight of her nipples, hardening under the brunette's hungry stare. She feels an animalistic need rise inside of her, the need to touch Quinn, take her, be in her.

She takes a deep breath and reminds herself that she has to take this slow. She can't rush it, she can't give in to her primal instincts of jumping Quinn, nearly ripping her apart in her irrational lust. She has to be tender, loving. She has to settle Quinn's mind.

She leans down and kisses her at the top of her sternum, trailing down over the cool skin. Quinn throws her head back into the cushions and moans. The sound doesn't help Santana very much in suppressing the crazy need to touch every part of Quinn. She looks up, staring at Quinn's face in wonder as the other girl shuts her eyes. She has to stop herself from overthinking what is happening. She cannot fathom that this is really Quinn, really her, really the one person she wants and not some substitute. She doesn't have to pretend, she doesn't have to use her imagination. This is real. This is it. It leaves her feeling all over the place, not herself. As if a part of her is detached in disbelief, refusing to acknowledge the harsh reality present by the feeling of Quinn's skin.

Quinn, growing impatient, pushes her chest into Santana. Santana closes her eyes and takes a second to gather herself before she brings her fingers to one nipple and softly strokes it. She circles it with her thumb, flicking the pad over the tip of the hard nub. She watches Quinn's body react. She's seen this happen before, but with Quinn, it holds so much more meaning. Fascinated, she repeats the motion with every finger. She rests her head on Quinn's chest to take a closer look as she rolls the nipple between thumb and index finger, tweaking it ever so lightly. Quinn moans and grunts, clearly approving. Santana feels out of this world.

She brings her head to the other nipple and rests her lips on it. The nipple strains against her lips and it takes everything she has not to bite down on it savagely. She breathes in through her nose, taking in Quinn's scent, before tentatively flicking her tongue over Quinn's nipple, using the tip to circle it. Quinn becomes more vocal, more desperate, her body moving in an attempt to intensify the contact. Santana sighs, air rippling over Quinn's nipple, making it even harder. As she wraps her lips around it and sucks it in her mouth, Santana caresses Quinn's side, leading it downwards to the hem of her shorts. Her mouth burns, her fingers burn, everything burns and flashes in her mind. The sensation blinds her. She slips her hand under the waistband and cups her hip. Her senses overwhelm her once again, her hormones raging. When she's satisfied with her work on Quinn's nipple, she moves her mouth to the other one. Somewhere in the process of sucking at Quinn's breasts, she let her body slump down, now fully on top of the blonde. She can't stop herself from pushing her hips downwards forcefully.

When Santana's done, she leans up and watches Quinn. "Are you okay?" she asks quietly, her voice barely audible.

Quinn, breathing heavily, lifts her head. "Santana. _Please._ I'm not a doll. I'll tell you if I'm not okay."

_Shit. Fuck. Fuck, you're doing this wrong._

"I'm sorry."

_I never apologize._

"Just get on with it."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. Okay." Santana closes her eyes, shakes her head, opens them again.

As she moves her trembling hands to Quinn's shorts to pull them off, Quinn speaks. "Uhm... I love what you're doing, but it's kind of weird that you're still wearing your clothes, so..."

"Do you want me to take them off?"

_I'm going to fucking explode here!_

Quinn nods. Santana wastes no time and quickly gets rid of her shirt and bra. She flushes at Quinn's gleaming eyes. The blonde reaches out a hand, cupping one breast, taking the nipple between thumb and index finger. Her breathing grows heavier as she touches Santana's other breast as well. Santana squeaks, reveling in the feeling. She pushes her chest into Quinn's hands, throwing her head back. Then she remembers.

"As much as I love this, this is about you," Santana says, softly grabbing Quinn's wrist and pinning it down on the bed.

Quinn nods again and Santana pulls her shorts off. Quinn lifts her hips to assist and once again, Santana needs a moment. She looks at Quinn, lying before her in nothing but her panties.

_This is it, 're going to touch her. It's really her. You're going to touch Quinn Fabray. Just like you've always wanted to. This is your-_

She stops herself. She has to, if she wants to continue this. If she thinks too much, she might freak out and hate herself for it later. She brings her face to Quinn's sex and presses a kiss over her clit. Her nose pressed against Quinn, making her light in the head. The soft tissue of those panties, wet... It sends a jolt to Santana's core. Quinn gasps, groans as Santana's tongue pushes against it. The smell of Quinn's arousal fills her nose, has her nostrils flaring as she tries to take it all in. With her teeth, she pulls the panties down and then uses her hands to lead them over her legs and ankles. It lands on the floor without a sound. She scrapes her nails along Quinn's legs.

"You're so gorgeous, Quinn. So perfect." Santana's voice is raspy, her pupils dilated, her heart pounding in her chest. She remembers Quinn's earlier request and quickly takes her own shorts off beforing bending over to kiss Quinn's neck. She doesn't notice the thin trail of tears running over her cheek. Quinn moves her head to accommodate her friend and whimpers as Santana runs a finger over her slit. She bites her lip as Santana uses her hand to urge her to spread her legs. She complies. Whimpers.

Santana is dazzled at the feeling, the sight. She leans down again.

Santana dips her finger inside and can't believe how wet Quinn is. She moves her mouth over her neck and wonders if she's found Quinn's sweet spot when the blonde groans heavier than ever before. Santana's stomach is in knots. She rests the pad of her finger just above Quinn's entrance and rubs her with short, strong strokes. Quinn cants her hips, but Santana moves her finger higher, resting it just below her clit.

She kisses Quinn's jaw, but has to settle for resting her cheek against Quinn's when she finally circles her clit – she needs air, her mind is exploding. Without fully realizing it, she's bucking her hips, assisting her hand in rendering the movements more forceful. She starts with slow movements, but gradually increases her pace and also the pressure she applies. Finally, she flicks the pad of her finger over Quinn's clit and the blonde's body is going wild underneath her. She now rubs her clit, scraping her nail over it every now and then, earning a hiss of pain and pleasure. She presses down one last time before swiftly slipping her finger downwards. Quinn protests, but is soon shut up when Santana replaces the finger with her thumb and now circles her entrance.

Quinn whimpers when Santana slips her finger inside and touches her walls, slowly inching deeper inside, allowing her friend to adjust to the feeling. She takes it slower than even she can take, but knows that she has to. She doesn't realize that she's holding her breath until she notices that she needs air. Her breathing is uncontrolled and erratic as Quinn moves her hips. Santana drags her finger back, slips it inside again. She repeats this over and over, creating a steady rhythm. Her thumb is still working her clit. Quinn gasps, moans, squeaks. Santana's body moves along and she feels herself growing wetter by the second. Quinn's hips buckle up violently and she groans when Santana finds that one spot, rubbing it with enough force to send Quinn over the edge.

Santana knows it's a total cliché, but it feels _magical_. Quinn's walls tightening around her finger, locking it inside of her, clamping down on it. Purely magical. She faintly realizes how her own hips are bucking into Quinn, desperate as her body is for release.

Quinn is loud when she comes. She utters some incoherent words, her breathing erratic. Santana doesn't know what hits her when she feels herself losing it. Never before has she had an orgasm without being touched.

When Santana looks up, she notices the tears in Quinn's eyes as she slowly brings her down from her orgasm, lazily drawing circles around her clit. Both whimper when she pulls out her finger, licks it clean and crawls up to Quinn. She takes her friend in her arms and Quinn rests her head in Santana's neck, tears still flowing over her cheeks. Santana holds her tightly, still baffled at the feeling.

"Are you okay?" Santana mumbles softly in her ear, her voice full of concern.

She feels Quinn nod. "Yes. Totally. I'm – I – I just -"

"I know," Santana offers, rubbing her back. "I know."

Except she doesn't. She has no fucking clue what just happened. It was beyond anything she'd imagined it to be. She had almost been fairly certain that after all those years of lusting, it would be disappointing to finally sleep with Quinn – but it wasn't. Her entire body still buzzes, she's still shaking slightly.

Quinn falls asleep, her breathing finally steadying. Her head against Santana's shoulder. Santana slowly comes down from her high.

For the first time ever, Santana tumbles into a deep sleep with Quinn by her side. In her arms.

Outside, the sun rises. Neither of both girls notices the moonlight being ever so slowly replaced by the early morning sun.


End file.
